"That snob!!" I thought. I was angry beyond belief, so angry that the miniature Kim shaped devil in my head had completely silenced the angel; what I was about to do seemed like not only the right thing to do, but the ONLY thing to do. I stomped across the hard Arizona playground with ferocity and purposefulness.
The girl must have done something unjust and cruel, for I was very slow to anger even as a second-grader. But looking back, I don't even remember what she said. I don't even remember her name. I do remember the feeling like it was yesterday.
I spotted her from several hundred feet away. There she was playing with her friends, acting like she was not guilty of the pain I was currently experiencing. She was going to pay. She was going to be sorry for what she did to me. If teachers didn't want to help me, I had to take the matters into my own hands.
She never even saw me coming. Her back was facing me as I made my advance. She had long, straight hair. She was wearing a cute pink shirt with coveted Guess? jeans. I knew that what I was about to do would make me feel better. It was justice.
And, maybe it was. But, after I grabbed her long hair with both hands and pulled as hard as my seven-year-old body would allow me, I knew almost instantly that it was the wrong thing to do. I say "almost instantly," because in that moment between when I first grabbed her hair and when she started crying, I felt vindicated. I was not prepared to feel what I did when she cried. Her entire body fell over backwards onto the hard grass.
I did not know what to say to the girl crying on the ground. I knew that I should say I was sorry, but I didn't know if I was. I caused her that pain on purpose. I had planned to do it. Somewhere, deep down maybe, I must have known that she would cry, that I would get into big trouble. I stood there ashamed of myself as I watched her friends help her to her feet.
I was swiftly taken into custody by one of the playground aides. What followed was my first trip to the principal's office. I sat and waited with tears in my eyes. I was going to be in big, BIG trouble. Would my parents understand? Surely, if I told them what she did to me, what I did to her would seem less bad, right? I was smart enough to know that the principal wouldn't buy my story.
My parents probably understood my situation, but that did not stop them from punishing me. I deserved to be punished. At that age, I didn't understand what consequences my actions would have. At that age, I could barely pronounce "consequences," and I certainly couldn't spell it. I knew about them, though. They teach you all about consequences at church. And we went to church every Sunday. I should have known better.
Life can teach you about consequences in a way that you are sure to remember. What I learned that day was an important lesson on the effects of my actions. It stuck with me more than any lesson I had ever learned at church. I was fortunate that the victim of my anger was relatively unhurt without any permanent damage.
Elementary school was not easy for me. Frequently, I was the victim to cruel tormenting. Always, I was the social outcast; even geeks stayed away from me. However, never again did I give in to anger and frustration to the point of physically assaulting my tormentors.
I want to improve it is much as I possibly can, so any constructive criticism or feedback would be most excellent.